


within these walls

by icarusinflight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Blow Jobs, Discussion of Grief, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, H/D Erised 2019, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Injuries, POV Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Sentient Houses, The wine drinking is very important, wine drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21892600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusinflight/pseuds/icarusinflight
Summary: There might be something amiss with Harry’s house.Harry can't quite put his finger on it, all he knows is there's something a little bitoff, maybe something a bitdifferentabout Grimmauld Place.Regardless, with Draco's help he intends to find the source—even if the source might not be the house at all.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 61
Kudos: 506
Collections: DM/HP Sentient House Fics, H/D Erised 2019





	within these walls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tackytiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/gifts).



> To Tackytiger:
> 
> I have such an immense respect and adoration for you, and when I received my sign up with you as my recipient I was absolutely delighted. You gave me so many delightful prompts, scenarios and likes to work with, I just hope this presses some of your buttons.
> 
> Thank you for always being a delight in the fandom world!
> 
> I took some liberties here with some things. I took many liberties. I went trawling for liberties and dredged them all up from writers excuses sea and it is that which sustains my fic.
> 
> I’ll explain some of them later, but I just be aware. Liberty pond lies ahead.
> 
> Thank you so much to the mods, who were absolutely wonderful and so patient with me throughout this process. I only made it through thanks to all of your help and support.
> 
> Many thanks to my support team. You know who you are, but I’ll thank you all for your help when we’re on the other side. Ravenclaws rule!
> 
> Lyrics used at the beginning are from _Little Talks_ by _Of Monsters and Men_

_I don't like walking around this old and empty house  
The stairs creak as I sleep  
It's keeping me awake_

Draco places the cup of tea in front of Harry and slides to half-sit half-lean next to Harry against the edge of their shared desk. 

Harry throws down the report he’s been trying to read, taking the cup from the coaster—his own face looks up at him. It’s a little obscured from tea rings, but the persistently awkward smile still looks up at him. It’s not even his smile; the image isn't a photo but a replication. Not even a good one. Draco had come in crowing about the coaster one morning, and Harry’s not been able to get rid of it since. There’s a variety of them it seems, and sometimes he comes in on a Monday morning to a different image looking up at him, another face that looks not-quite-right but close enough to be eerie. This week's coaster is a picture of him from after the war, the ostentatious Order of Merlin medal around his neck, against the backdrop of Hogwarts. The coaster rendition of Harry seems to display pride at the medal, occasionally displaying it off for the viewer to see. Harry’s _actual_ medal is in the kids toy chest at The Burrow.

When Harry takes a sip, the tea itself is perfect, just the right temperature and goes down a treat, the highlight of his morning so far. Draco always makes the best tea, insists on making it, says Harry does a shit job of it, and maybe he’s right—tea never seems to taste as good when Harry makes it. Harry always likes tea better when someone else has made it, but he likes tea _best_ when Draco’s made it. He probably went to some posh tea making class with all his posh mates. Either that or he’s spiking it, and if that’s the case Harry can’t bring himself to care. He’s getting bloody good tea made for him, who is he to question it?

Harry takes his time, knows Draco is clearly waiting for something, but that he won’t interrupt him while he’s drinking. That's probably the second rule of tea making class: _good cups of tea must be savoured, not interrupted_. 

There’s a conversation brewing obviously, Draco only hovers when he wants something. Harry’s curious, but if nothing else he's grown some patience over the years, and he knows Draco enough to know that he’ll tell Harry exactly when he’s ready, and not a moment before.. Draco nurses his own tea between his hands, but doesn’t drink from it, and It's not until Harry’s coaster face is once again obscured that Draco breaks his silence. 

"So tomorrow," Draco says. "At Grimmauld Place."

"Tomorrow," Harry agrees. "Thanks for agreeing to help out." 

The house has been something he’s been putting off. It’s a bit of a problem, or maybe a big problem, but it’s _been_ a problem, one that's been losing him sleep—quite literally. He’s been avoiding it, hoping it would just resolve on its own but with every week that passes it’s becoming more and more obvious that that's not going to happen. He used to be so good at solving problems but it turns out things get harder when it's not some big dark conspiracy. It's awful, but sometimes Harry misses those days. In some ways it was easier, simpler. It's an awful thought, one that twists his stomach and fills him with hot shame. There's _nothing_ Harry would ever do to go back there but still… in a way… some of it was easier. 

Easier than problems like what to do about your troublesome house and questions like _what's your five year plan Harry?_

He doesn’t know where his life’s going. He’s not got a five year plan to win the Quidditch World Cup like Ginny, or a goal of making Minister for Magic like Hermione, or aspirations of a family like Ron. He’s still working on that, or not working on that, as it might be. His lack of direction seems to be contagious, spreading from life and career goals to living situations, led him to going along with others, shacking up with Ginny to start with, and then living with Ron and Hermione when that hadn’t worked out. Staying with them was only ever meant to be temporary, a stopgap until Harry had his own place. It’s just that it never seemed to happen, and somehow Harry stayed there, right up until Ron had shown him the ring. That had been enough of a wakeup call for Harry, sent him packing his bags and throwing open the doors to Grimmauld Place again.

Draco dismisses his words. "I’m not helping Potter, you better not have it in your head that I’ll be doing any work. I’ll be _advising_ only. I’m there to help you sort out your shit. Just like usual. Where would you be without me to manage you?"

"You’re not my manager."

Draco hums a sound and takes another sip from his cup. "I am fairly sure," Draco says, arching an eyebrow, "that as the higher ranking officer, that’s exactly what I am."

"You’re not higher ranking," Harry disagrees, the words rolling off his tongue easily. It’s old territory, the familiar argument almost forces a smile to his face, he picks up his cup again, hides the smile into it.

"Experience counts Potter." Familiar words that Harry has heard many times before. Because Draco had joined the Auror Department as a probational trainee straight after the Battle of Hogwarts as part of his post-war sentence, while Harry had gone back to do his last year at Hogwarts. They’d still made Auror the same year, but Draco always insists his extra year counts. They’d been Aurors for another two years after that before they were paired together. In the five or so years since the war had ended was enough time for them to be able to work together—if not seamlessly, then at least without the same antagonist that had accompanied their school years. It had certainly taken some adjustment, and a fair amount of compromise, but then in Harry’s experience, any partnership did. They’d only been paired together a year, but so far the partnership has worked well, much to the surprise of everyone—except, apparently, Robards. Draco’s penchant for planning balances out Harry’s desire to act, and they’ve rapidly become known for their high solve rates, to the point where Robards has started handing them some of the older cold cases, ones that have fallen by the wayside. There’s a backlog of cases that accumulated both before and during the war, and the people affected still deserve justice, even if it’s been years in the making. 

Draco in particular throws himself into them, and once he’s got a lead it’s like he’s spotted the Snitch and he’s after it, full steam ahead. The cold cases require more research—which Draco loves—and often involve tracking down and interviewing people who’ve lost all faith in the Aurors—which Harry’s good at. There’s something about putting _War Hero Harry Potter_ in front of someone that eases the way, and it might not be Harry’s favourite part of the job, but it brings him satisfaction to give a resolution to those affected. He knows better than most that it won’t bring back the dead—dead's dead, and not even justice will ever change that—but it helps those they leave behind. 

It all helps.

They’ve been _too_ good at it if anything, and Harry’s heard there’s talk about them being headhunted by the Cold Case Unit. It’s been putting Harry on edge. He knows when the offer comes Draco will most likely snap it up and Harry… Harry can’t imagine giving up all the other parts of his current job. Harry enjoys being an Auror—there’s nothing quite like the thrill of the hunt that comes from an active investigation. The thought of losing Draco as his partner seems untenable, but people move on, he knows that. They’ll say they’ll catch up and then something will happen, and before he knows it, it'll be six months later and the extent of their interactions will be saying ‘hello’ at the cafeteria and asking ‘how’ve you been’.

"You keep telling yourself that Malfoy," Harry says, playing the same old part once again. He’s glad they can have this now, the easy banter may have been years in the making, but it’s part of why Harry enjoys their partnership so much. It’s surprisingly easy to get along with Draco these days, and Harry can appreciate Draco’s quick banter, far better than the sharp tongue he used to wield. It’s a far cry from the antagonistic relationship they once had. Nemesis. Harry had thought of Draco as his _nemesis_. It had all been so ridiculous, so teenage. Even the memory of that makes him wince these days.

"Well if you’re going to be like that, maybe I won’t share my wisdom with you at the weekend." 

The words sound like a threat, but they’re said playfully. Harry knows Draco won’t let him down. He hasn’t ever let Harry down, not once as his partner, not in work or outside of it. There aren’t many people in his life he can say that about. Draco’s got a loyal streak and he commits. It’s something they have in common, even if it’s got them both in trouble in the past, putting trust in people that maybe they shouldn’t have. Harry’s working on it. He’s got his own therapist for that and the myriad of other issues that come from living through the war as _the Chosen One_.

"Oh Malfoy," Harry says, his voice faux-sweet. "Please, with your superior knowledge of pure-blood rituals and lived experience of magical houses, and your _years_ of training in magical research, won’t you help me with my house?"

"Oh you do go on." Draco’s voice sounds pleased, and there’s a hint of colour in his cheeks, nothing to do with the heat from his tea. And this, this is one of the things Harry might take a little too much joy in, getting a reaction out of Draco, making him flustered. He shows it so well, the flush of his cheeks stark against his pale skin, and the usually sharp line of his lips twitching on a smile. Lately Harry’s been thinking too much about what else might make Draco flush like that, what would make him flush _more_ , which is definitely not a thing he should be thinking about his work colleague. "I guess if it means that much to you, I’ll be there. You better have breakfast ready for me, and something better than the shit cereal you usually eat." Draco takes another sip of his tea, uncrossing his legs and stands up. "I’ll bring the coffee, so that’ll be good at least." Draco walks around to his desk, taking his seat and placing his cup down. Harry turns his attention back to the report. It’s another cold case, written with about the same amount of respect Harry gave to his Potions essays at school. So far he’s yet to glean anything of use from it.

"Oh, and Potter," Draco says, and Harry gladly looks away from the report—honestly, was it written by a first year? "Since I am giving you my time and expertise, I will be expecting you to show me an appropriate amount of appreciation." 

His voice hits Harry low, sending a rush of heat through his body. This time it’s Harry’s turn to blush.

* * *

Harry has fresh croissants ready on the bench and a half drunk tea sitting in front of him as he waits for Draco to arrive. The house doesn’t look as awful as it did the day before. There’s a tightly wound worry in his stomach at having someone new inside his space, and that kept him up all night cleaning and sorting and trying to make it at least a little bit ordered. He wanted to make the house look less like a place that had been abandoned for almost a decade, and more like a place someone would want to live in.

He’s not sure how well he’s succeeded. The house almost seems resistant to it; the books on the bookshelf he ordered last night have been rearranged, the living room furniture has moved around, and the blanket he folded away last night was pulled across the living room floor. That, at least, he’s righted, but he had to leave the furniture, and he couldn’t stop looking around at the house and imagining Draco judging him for it. It’s especially hard when he’s seen inside Draco’s home, the sharp flat that wouldn’t look out of place in a housing magazine, everything ordered and with its perfect placelines, with green luscious plants in every room. It’s a stark contrast to this dusty and discoloured house, the light that doesn’t seem to reach the corners of the rooms. At least the portraits are gone now, courtesy of Hermione’s hard work—first to disable the charms on the portraits, and then to remove them from the wall. It’s something at least.

The doorbell rings, and Harry tips the rest of his now-cold tea down the drain, leaving the cup in the sink and heading to the door. 

When Harry opens the door, Draco is waiting there, two coffee cups on a tray in one hand, and a plant on the ground in front of him.

"That’s your housewarming gift Potter so you may as well bring it inside," Draco says, stepping around the plant and slipping easily past Harry and the door. "I had a hard enough time bringing it over here."

"How kind of you," Harry says sardonically, holding the door open with one foot as he leans down to pick up the pot. It’s a very Draco pot, smooth and white, and it matches the colour of the flower. It looks like a pot that would belong in Draco’s flat, but it feels out of place in Harry’s house. He’s not sure where it should go, and he settles for placing it on the coffee table in the living room.

"It’s a peace lily," Draco says, handing him a coffee cup.

"Aren’t they usually for funerals?" Harry takes the offered cup and takes a sip. The coffee’s a bit sharper and stronger than he usually takes it. Probably coffee-wanker-approved though; Draco seems happy enough with his own cup, taking a deep sip and making a noise that could be satisfaction but sounds a bit pornographic.

"Among other things," Draco says, "it’s also a _peace lily_." He enunciates the words slowly, carefully, like one might when explaining something to a child.

"Right," Harry says, looking at the lily again for lack of anywhere else to look. It feels awkward now, or maybe just _he’s_ feeling awkward now. He’d not really thought about what it would be like having Draco around his house. Weird apparently, but there’s not much he can do about that now.

"It is a bit dreary in here isn’t it?" Draco wanders around the room, peering at the mantelpiece, and Harry feels like the place is being appraised. Maybe Draco will get out his dragonhide journal and start making notes soon, turn in a report at the end of the day like when they interview witnesses. "Still, it feels less oppressive than it used to, that’s something."

"You’ve been here before?"

"Of course." Draco gives him a scathing look. "Though I don’t remember much of it, I can’t forget the feeling of the place. Great Aunt Walburga died when I was young and I don’t think we ever came back." Draco turns, runs his hand along the old wallpaper. "I remember being sure there were Boggarts in the cellar, though," he adds with a grimace.

Harry winces at the memory, but Draco, who’s looking away, doesn’t catch it. He’s hopeful all the Boggarts have since vacated the premises, but if they still lurk in the corners, two Aurors are more than qualified to handle them.

"So," Draco says, casting a pointed glance around the room before returning his gaze to Harry. "What’s wrong with your house, Potter?"

It’s asked easy enough, Draco’s tone light and almost teasing. There was a time when they would have been snide, a time when those words would have set Harry on the attack, but it’s been years since Hogwarts. In those days every word shared between them would put Harry on edge, fluffing up his fur like Crookshanks used to at any sign of a fight (the old furball does it less often these days, the years turning him softer; there’s even a rat that’s taken up residence in Hermione’s back garden, that Harry once spotted running right past Crookshanks’ gaze, with not a flicker from the ginger kneazle cat—the years have turned them all a bit softer really). It may have been years since only a word from Draco could raise his hackles (not even a word if he’s honest, just the presence of Draco, looking at him, _breathing_ in the same space as him would be enough to have Harry fighting ready—it’s amazing looking back, just how ready Harry had been to throw down).

Draco’s been getting under his skin in other ways these days, something that Harry’s been trying to overlook with varying degrees of success. It’s becoming increasingly hard though, and the change of pace in their cases isn’t helping either. When they have an active investigation, it’s easier to ignore how Draco looks, to ignore how sometimes Harry sees him stretching out and just feels his body run hot, his stomach clenching and his mouth going slack. It’s a problem, one he’s not coping with well. Seeing Draco outside of work doesn’t do much for the want that’s always inside Harry, just waiting for the moment to strike, like a snake in the sun. 

Harry’s trying not to make a thing of it. He’s not sure he’s been very successful at that.

"There’s nothing _wrong_ with it," Harry says, even if he kind of thinks there might be. It’s all the little things though, things that Harry isn’t sure if he should be worrying about... It just feels _not quite right_ , things going weird, stuff moving around and never where it should be. There are noises too, some nights he swears he can hear the stairs creaking, but he can never tell if it’s the house keeping him awake or his own mind playing tricks on him. It’s enough to leave Harry feeling a little uncomfortable, never really at ease. He’s been staying later at work, and making excuses to go out, but it’s starting to wear him down, and lately he’s felt so tired, tired of feeling uncomfortable in his house, tired of feeling like he’s still looking for a place of his own he can call home. This was Sirius’ home, once. And he has some nice memories here—some shit ones too, but there aren’t many places Harry can think of that don’t have a bit of both. Sirius left Grimmauld to Harry, and Harry kind of hopes that maybe it could be his. 

There’s a part of Harry that fears that maybe it’s not the house but _Harry_ , and it feels unfair to but it’s a little harsh to say there’s something _wrong_ with the house, when he doesn’t know if there really is. And maybe he’s getting a little caught up in this, maybe it’s not the house at all he’s thinking about when he insists that, _just because there’s something not quite right, it doesn’t mean it’s wrong_.

Draco rolls his eyes, but Harry’s used to that. 

"Alright then," Draco says, exasperation seeping into his voice. "What do we need to do?"

"Well," says Harry, a little sheepishly, running his hand through his hair, "I rather hoped you’d know."

* * *

Draco grumbles about it, but he does actually have a few ideas about finding out what is going on (not wrong) with Harry's house. It’s a relief, and Harry lets Draco do his thing, following Draco as he walks around. Investigating Grimmauld Place seems a lot like snooping, only with the occasional muttering of words, running his hand over walls and surfaces, and many frowns, Draco’s eyebrows pulling in concern as he looks over Harry’s house.

Harry follows from a distance, close enough to watch Draco, to be around in case Draco needs anything, but leaving enough room between them so as not to get in his way. Draco gets snippity about his space when he’s investigating a scene, something Harry’s learnt the hard way. Harry will always run in if there’s something he can do, someway he can _help_ but when it comes to investigating a scene he’s just as happy to take it in from a distance, even photographs are adequate for him. Draco, however, insists on getting up close and personal, placing himself in the scene absorbing the scene from a proximity. Even the cold cases they work often involve Draco walking the scene, running his hands over the walls, as if they will tell him their secrets. If anyone can hear what they have to say, it’s Draco. It would explain how he’s so good at his job.

It’s nice to see Draco out of his uniform, even when they end up at the Leaky Cauldron after work he’s still in his work clothes, but today he’s completely unencumbered by the usual heavy Aurors uniform. Harry certainly appreciates it now, taking in Draco in his skinny jeans and the soft patterned shirt. He looks almost casual, certainly the most casual Harry has ever seen him. Draco’s chin-length hair—usually up in a tight bun or ponytail, as per the Auror guidelines—is thrown up loosely, almost messy, and it reminds Harry of the rushed and haphazard way Ginny used to tie up her hair, before she got sick of it and lopped it all off. The bun isn’t doing a great job, there’s hair falling out of it, loose hairs which fall away and into Draco’s face, hairs that Draco blows away with a huff. It doesn’t seem the most efficient process, but Harry enjoys watching him try.

Harry’s following Draco in case he needs help, of course, regardless of the fact that Draco's not shown a hint of needing Harry since he sighed, undid his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. He seems rather unperturbed by Harry’s presence, basically ignoring him, but Harry’s used to that—he works with Draco, after all.

For someone who said he wasn’t going to do any work, he is doing a lot of work, walking into dusty rooms and running his hand over every surface he finds. Draco’s covered in dust and even has a cobweb in his hair, and Harry isn't sure if he doesn’t know, or doesn’t care. It had surprised Harry at first when Draco had jumped straight in at their first scene together. These days it doesn’t surprise him, probably would have been more surprised if Draco had actually stayed out of it. His curiosity always wins out in the end. Whilst Harry enjoys the investigation enough, it’s not what he _loves_. The investigation is a necessary part of his job, but he’d rather be doing than investigating. He’s happy when they’ve figured everything out, when there’s a clear course of action to be taken, happiest when they’re _acting_ on the course of action. He can get a little lost sometimes when there isn’t a clear plan in place, and those are the times he gets stuck in inaction, too many options and too hard to make a decision, too hard to even get started on what he needs to do. Hermione and Ron had always been his guides in that, and he misses them now, wishes they were around to help him make decisions, like _what to do about this bloody house_ , but Ron and Hermione have their own lives to deal with, after all. Besides, Harry is an adult now, and really, he should be able to make decisions for himself.

* * *

"It’s like there’s nothing there," Draco says, later, when he’s finished his assessment of the house. It took far longer than Harry could have anticipated, all through the morning, only stopping for something to eat and then back to it again; the house was larger even than Harry ever realised. Harry followed Draco around as he made his way through Grimmauld Place, opening up rooms Harry had never seen before—that he didn’t even know where there. Draco seemed to know where the doors were, either through some long ago memory or just an awareness. Some rooms looked like they haven’t been touched since long before the house passed on to Harry, or even to Sirius. 

The garden was the last thing they looked at, Draco pushing aside the leaves and branches as he made his way down the overgrown path, and Harry hadn’t missed the pointed huff at the state of it, and had only just missed the branch of the crabapple tree released in his direction. 

Then Draco stalked back inside, kicked off his shoes, and threw himself onto the sofa quite dramatically.

Harry sat next to him, watching as Draco took off his socks, sent them flying off to his shoes in the corner, and brought his feet up into the sofa in front of him, stretching out his feet and wiggling his toes. 

"I haven’t been able to find anything. The house is alive, but there's just no link to you at all." Draco sighs, hanging his head and rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, kneading at the muscles there. Harry wants to reach out and do it for him, massage away the tension Draco always holds in his shoulders and his neck. He slides his hands underneath his thighs instead. 

"Is the house dead?" Harry asks, curiously. What happens to a house if it dies? Will he end up living in a place haunted by the ghost of the house? Is he already? 

"No," Malfoy says, with a grimace. "No, you'd definitely know if the house was dead. It's just like it's… Not connected to you."

"Should it be?"

Draco sighs. 

"I think that conversation needs food, and I need a drink. I've been working on your house all day, the least you can do is feed me."

"I have fed you," Harry points out.

"Then you can keep doing it," Draco says. "You sort dinner, I'll sort drinks." Draco doesn't ask for an affirmative before he strides off… somewhere. Harry expects to hear the front door, or the Floo, but his footsteps go down the hallway instead, and Harry hears the sound of a door opening, though he isn’t sure where. But Draco’s already been snooping around his house all day; it’s not like there’s anything else Harry has to hide.

He focuses instead on the task of making dinner. Something simple, definitely, and quick, but he also wants to make something that will impress Draco. Pasta probably, since that’s easy. He opens the door to the spelled cool box. Cooking is something he takes joy in now. There was a time when he couldn’t bare to do it, too many memories that always seemed to resurface when he stood around the kitchen stove. He’d resented it, and willingly traded chores to avoid it when he first moved in with Ron and Hermione. But with Ron and Hermione the kitchen had changed from a place of work to a place of warmth, of family, and eventually Harry had found that he did enjoy cooking—loved the feeling of preparing a meal for those he cared about. It’s something he’s missed since moving out of their shared flat; it’s just not the same cooking for one.

"I wasn’t sure the cellar would let me in." Draco’s voice interrupts his musings, Harry closes the door to the cool box and turns to face Draco who has a dark bottle in his hands, covered in dust. "These houses can be very protective of you know, but I thought it was worth a try, and look what I found."

"A lot of dust?" Harry asks.

Draco huffs, but Harry doesn’t miss the twitch of his nose—although it could just be the dust getting to him.

"No, this is a Rolling Stone Vintage. It’s very good, but it’s been a long time since I had any."

"Like the band?"

"The what?" Draco asks, with a puzzled look. He moves into the kitchen, taking a tea towel and wiping off the bottle.

Harry drops it, turns his attention back to the sparsely stocked fridge. He should have gone shopping probably, but he hadn’t been expecting Draco to stay for dinner. It’s nice though, and easier than he would have expected to have Draco in his house. They socialise outside of work a little, but it’s mostly pints after work, and—on one particularly memorable occasion—Draco’s birthday party that had ended up back at his house. It’s taken a year of partners to get to this stage—and Harry tries to shove down the thought that if they stop being partners, that this all might end too.

"So, what’s for dinner?"

"I could make pasta?" Harry offers. It sounds like a question, and maybe it is. Maybe he wants Draco to make the decision instead. "I could make pasta genovese, if you like that?" He has basil from Molly’s garden and planned to make it into a pesto anyway. It’s an easy meal for one. When he’s not sure he feels like making the effort to cook, he just throws together the things he’s got around. It’s easier that way, makes him feel like he’s still taking care of himself even if it simultaneously leaves him feeling guilty for not making more of an effort.

"Only if it’s fresh," Draco says, which is as much an affirmation as anything else. 

Draco opens the cupboard with the wine glasses first try—good luck probably, or some ridiculous posh house rule like, _wine glasses must always be kept to the right of the sink_. Harry busies himself with ingredients, as Draco spells clean the glasses—who knows the last time they were used?—and opens the wine, pouring out glasses for both of them. Harry’s glass is placed beside the cutting board and Draco takes his glass with him, pulling up a chair to the edge of the kitchen bench. He takes a seat, crossing his legs gracefully. He’s perfectly poised and perfectly positioned to watch Harry and Harry can feel Draco’s eyes on him. He’s watching Draco out of the corner of his eyes more than he should be really, considering he’s also got a very pointy object in his hands. 

Draco brings the wine to his lips, and Harry’s hands still on the cutting board as he turns his attention to Draco, even if does his best not to flat out stare.

It’s a production of sorts—or maybe a torture designed especially for Harry. Draco swirls the glass first, the liquid moving almost hypnotically around in the glass a few times. Draco brings the wine glass to his lips, smells it first, and then takes a noisy sip of it. Or maybe it’s just loud to Harry, but he can swear he hears the sound of Draco taking a drink. Draco doesn’t swallow the wine, shifting it around in his mouth for a moment, lips already carrying a hint of red from the wine, and Harry’s body runs hot at the sight of it. He abandons all pretence of not watching, turning his attention to Draco fully. He sees when Draco swallows, the movement of his throat and the bob of his Adam’s apple, and _fuck_ he needs to look away, but he _can’t_.

Draco opens his mouth and fucking _moans_.

Harry's pants suddenly feel tighter.

"Good wine?" he asks. His voice croaks a little on the words.

"Excellent wine," Draco replies. "You should have some." He nods at Harry’s own wine glass, the deep red, almost burgundy, liquid still waiting for him. 

Harry takes the glass just for the sake of it, raising it and taking a mouthful.

It’s sharp is the first thing he thinks—possibly a ridiculous thing to think about wine. It has a sort of spiciness to it without actually tasting spicy at all. He swallows the liquid, feels it burn on the way down, and when he takes a breath, he almost coughs on it, like it’s gone down the wrong way. His eyes sting and his mouth feels a sort of dried out, with a taste on his tongue that lingers and is decidedly _not nice_ , not good, and definitely not excellent.

"What was that?" He places the glass down, staring at the glass with some resentment. 

Draco laughs, the noise loud and genuine and ringing through the kitchen.

"That was not nice," Harry says, feeling a little indignant in the face of Draco’s laughter. Draco has placed his own glass back on the bench and is hunched forward, forearms braced against his knees. Harry thinks he can see a shine to his eyes. Harry's face is red now, but at least his erection has flagged a little in the wake of his blunder and Draco’s obvious entertainment. 

"Oh Harry," Draco says, his voice still filled with laughter. He has to stop to gasp for air, and he wraps his arm around his stomach as he sits back up. He’s obviously still almost laughing—trying to hold it in with minimal success. The result is little snorts that are definitely not posh, and quite frankly more than a little unflattering, but Harry can’t help but look on them fondly, even if it’s all at his expense. It’s still nice having this, the easiness between them, the fact that they can laugh at each other now. 

_I wouldn’t mind having this more often_ , he thinks, then remembers that there’s a significant chance it’ll all be coming to an end soon. Harry cuts the thought off, shoves it into a bag and then underneath his bed like all his old books and parchments from Hogwarts that he still can’t bring himself to throw out.

"Is that the first time you’ve drunk wine?" 

"No," Harry says, "I’ve had wine before." He doesn’t add that he’s only had it once, at a dinner hosted by Bill and Fleur. Fleur had poured him a glass. He hadn’t enjoyed it then either.

"But you don’t drink it often do you?" Draco asks, there’s still a touch of amusement in his voice, and there are definitely tears in his eyes. Harry can’t find it in himself to mind.

"No," Harry admits. 

"I thought as much," Draco says. He’s wearing his most self-satisfied smirk, and Harry should find it annoying but doesn’t. He kind of wants to wipe it off his face all the same, but not with his fists. Draco stands up, closes the small distance between them, and takes Harry’s glass in his hand.

He’s too close, leaning his back against the kitchen bench, and Harry would barely have to reach out to close the distance. His body feels too hot, and he wants to take a step back but feels like that would give himself away.

"First," Draco says, the wine glass suspended between his fingers, "you want to swirl the wine. It aerates it. This wine has been resting in a cellar for twenty five years, it needs to breathe a little." Draco swirls the wine and the deep red liquid moves in smooth waves around the glass, the liquid sliding down the glass in its wake. "Always smell it first, you taste with smell as well as with your tongue." Draco slows the wine glass's movements, and the waves slow and then cease altogether. Harry watches as the wine regathers in the bowl of the glass. Draco raises the glass between them and he leans in, sniffing at it, until Harry repeats the gesture. "When you take a drink, do it slowly and only sip a little. This is wine to be savoured, not devoured. Before you swallow,"—Draco raises his eyes to meet Harry’s—"swirl the wine in your mouth for a few moments, and then you can swallow." Harry searches Draco’s eyes for a hint of laughter, but he’s serious now, the amusement from only a few minutes ago lost somewhere along the way. 

They’re so close, and Harry leaned in enough that he has to move back a little as Draco raises the glass to his own lips, lest Harry be hit in the face with the stem of his own glass. Draco closes his eyes as he takes a sip, and Harry uses the opportunity to let himself really _look_. He’s close enough to feel like he’s watching through a looking glass, seeing every movement crystal clear, as Draco takes a sip of the wine. He can see Draco swirling it, see the way it pushes out his cheeks, his lips wine red, and Harry wants to touch them, wants to press his thumb against Draco’s lips and see what he does.

The thought runs through him like a flash of lightning, straight to his cock. He gets so hard so fast he almost feels dizzy from it, head spinning as fast as his thoughts are. He bites the inside of his cheek, hard enough that he tastes the tang of copper, the shock of pain enough to slow his thoughts—even if it does nothing for the pressure building in his groin

Draco swallows, opens his eyes, and Harry finds himself lost in those blue-grey eyes.

Draco must see it on him, Harry’s sure. He’s never been good at keeping things inside, and this feels so large there’s no way it can’t be written all over his face.

The moment stretches out, balancing precariously like a Knut on its edge, and Harry’s sure it will go tumbling over any moment.

"Your turn," Draco says.

Harry blinks, confused for a moment, and then the glass is at his lips, and Draco tips the wine into his mouth.

Harry drinks and almost forgets, ready to take whatever Draco’s giving him. He’s not sure what’s happening here, but he can’t imagine fighting it, can’t imagine doing anything but what Draco wants him to do, and that’s probably a thought he should examine in the future, but he can’t fathom it at the moment. It’s Draco that stops him. He only lets Harry have half a mouthful and then reminds him, "swirl it," and Harry does, the movements awkward. He feels flushed and hot, something that has nothing to do with the wine, and everything to do with Draco, and the tone of his voice when he says, "swallow."

Maybe it has something to do with the easy way that Harry obeys too.

"Was that better?" Draco asks. His words are hoarse and sound as strained as Harry feels. It makes his head swim. 

Harry can’t trust his voice, so he just nods.

"You’ve got a little..." Draco brings his thumb up to Harry’s lip, swipes at the corner of his lips.

It feels like his whole body condenses down to that one point of contact, the soft skin of Draco’s thumb pressing against his lips. Harry swears he can feel the dampness there as Draco’s thumb rests there just a moment. His mouth falls open, and Draco’s thumb is so close to pressing into his mouth. Harry thinks about flicking his tongue out, licking the moisture up as nothing more than an excuse to taste Draco’s skin, to press against him and press against this moment, whatever it is that’s happening between them and see where it goes. 

Harry can’t watch his thumb, so he watches Draco instead, watches as Draco’s eyes lock on his lips or his thumb, the way Draco's mouth has fallen open too, mirroring Harry’s own lips. Draco’s thumb presses harder, dipping just inside the crease of Harry's lips, almost inside his mouth. Draco tugs at Harry’s bottom lip, just a hint of pressure but enough for Harry to feel it, for his mouth to drop open further, almost obediently, and Harry wants this, wants Draco’s thumb in his mouth, feels hungry for it, wants that and more. 

Then Draco’s thumb is gone, and Harry watches as Draco brings it back to his own lips, slides his thumb into his mouth, and the air rushes out of Harry's lungs, sounds a lot like a groan.

Draco smirks around his thumb, and Harry knows he’s lost. 

Draco turns, picking up the wine glass—Harry doesn’t even remember him placing it down—and passes it back to Harry. 

"I think you were going to cook dinner for me?" Draco says, and it takes Harry a moment to process the words, his brain struggling a little.

"I—" Harry says, trying to capture his thoughts, trying to catch back up, to reset. His cock is so hard it almost _hurts_ , straining in his trousers. It’s not helping with Draco still standing so close.

Draco gives him a reprieve, moving to grab his own glass, and Harry takes the moment to take a sip from his own. He barely remembers more than _only sip a little_ as he takes a drink, belatedly recalling he was meant to swirl it in his mouth after he’s already swallowed the wine. 

The distance gives Harry space to breath, even if blood is still pounding through his veins, loud in his ears.

"Are you going to do it all by hand then?" Draco waves at the produce on the bench.

"Unless you want to help?" Harry says, trying for humorous. But his voice sounds breathless, and his skin feels tight; he’s not sure it lands right. 

Draco huffs a laugh, walks back to his chair and sits again, folding his legs and dangling his wine glass from his fingertips. "I think I’ve done enough today. It’s my turn to watch you now."

Harry can feel the heat in his cheeks.

"Right well," he says, trying to restore some normalcy. "Prepare yourself for the best pasta Genovese you’ve ever had."

* * *

The dinner had been a test in and of itself. 

Harry’s not sure what happened before, but it's as if the moment in the kitchen broke something between them. Harry would think he was the only one affected if not for the way Draco is looking at _him_ , and he doesn’t look away, their gazes locked, caught like one of the Cornish Pixies back in second year, until one of them finally cracks and looks away. 

It's like the floodgates are open, and that should scare Harry—he's never been good at initiating things—but it doesn't feel like there's anything he has to do at this stage. He just has to let himself go along with it, and see what happens. Maybe that's naïve or delusional, but either way, Harry holds on to it, uses it to get himself through the dinner, with Draco looking like he does while Harry wants, wants, wants. 

Draco seems to appreciate the pasta at least. Harry doesn't think he tastes it, too focused on Draco, like every sense has been tuned in to the sounds of Draco eating, the little moans of appreciation that send chills through Harry's body. He watches as Draco manages to eat the pasta without leaving traces of sauce all over his face as Harry knows he does himself. He has to wipe it away with the frog napkins that Molly bought him as a housewarming gift—he's still not sure what the meaning is behind the frog motif, but he appreciates the napkins all the same. Harry even thinks he can smell Draco; Harry watched Draco work up a sweat today as they investigated the house, so maybe Harry actually _can_ smell him, but he can't be sure. 

An image of himself pushing Draco up against the wall and burying his face into Draco's skin, his neck, his chest, even his armpits where that scent would be _so strong_ flashes unbidden into his head, and it hits him so hard he lets out a low groan. 

Draco either doesn't hear, doesn't notice, or just plain ignores him. Very possibly the latter. He’s very proficient at ignoring Harry when he wants.

"What do you know about sentient houses?" Draco finally asks when he's finished his dinner. He tops up his and Harry's wine glasses. Harry isn't sure he needs any more wine; he can feel the red flush of it all through his body. "Do you know how they come into being?" 

"No," Harry admits. The information Hermione gave him had been limited. It had been a haphazard amalgamation of information, sourced from books, newspaper articles, and even one Harry swore was a _gossip magazine_. Some of the information said the houses had been around since Merlin's age. Nobody even knew how many there were; although technically the Ministry required that sentient houses be registered, it was suspected that many families kept their existence to themselves. The information Hermione found was more about instances when the houses had gone _wrong_ , which was less than comforting, but Harry figured that, as an Auror, if anyone could handle a malfunctioning house, it would be him. A foolish thought—but certainly not his first, and not even the most foolish, not by far. "There's nothing in the information I—Hermione—found that says anything about how the houses are formed." 

"No, there wouldn't be," Draco says, and Harry bites down on his _then how was I supposed to know?_ "It's old magic, I wouldn’t even know where to find information on it honestly. They’re the stories we get told as children, the sort of magic that just… you grow up seeing magic everywhere. My first memories are of Mother doing spells for me. It’s all normal, but there’s something about houses. You hear about them in this _way_ , and even after all these years, nobody really knows exactly how they came into being. There’s a mystery to them, and we learn stories about houses that take care of their residents, learn horror stories about how they go wrong.

"Everything I learned about sentient houses comes from those stories. They need to be sustained or they will wither and die. The house is tied to the family, but always specifically to one person. There have been cases of it being transferred outside of a family, but also"—Draco shrugs—"it doesn't always work." He grimaces a little, in the same way you pull a face at an accident just waiting to happen. An inevitable mess. "By all rights Grimmauld Place should have died off after Sirius died, the house left empty with no succession in place." 

"It was left to me," Harry points out.

"But you're not a Black," Draco replies, and it shouldn't sting, but it does.

"That's bullshit," Harry says, the anger rising in him. "Sirius was my family. And he left Grimmauld Place to _me_."

" _I_ understand that Harry, but the house wouldn’t necessarily see it like that. You're not its blood, and maybe that wouldn't matter if you'd been living here, if you spent time here with Sirius—before everything. But you can't have been here more than a few weeks here, all told. You're practically a stranger.

Harry thinks of the hallway and the tapestry which once hung there that now rests in the basement along with that fucking portrait. He wonders if he’d be able to find the names and trace the path of the house. He grimaces at the thought—he’s not sure that’s something he wants, even if he could. 

"You can usually trace the lineage of the masters of the house back like a family tree as it passes from person to person." Draco seems to consider his own words. "Although master probably isn't the right word. It's more of a pairing. A mutual relationship. You give a bit of yourself and the house uses your magic."

"That sounds a bit like Dark Magic." 

"It’s not Dark Magic," Draco says firmly, and he sounds a little defensive. "Not everything you don’t understand is Dark Magic. Not all magic uses spells or potions. Some magic runs deeper, houses just happen to be one of them. Divination does too."

"Divination is rubbish."

"Just because you don't understand it." Draco rolls his eyes. "Divination is an important area of magic. Prophecies are one of the strongest magics out there."

Divination is one of the things they have starkly differing opinions on—one of the things they can truly get into a row about. Draco takes Divination and Prophecies _very_ seriously. Harry thinks if he’d been a Muggle he would have been the sort of person to check his star signs every morning, reading them in the back pages of the daily paper before moving onto all the boring things like stocks and exchanges.

"Doesn’t make them any less bullshit," Harry adds, partially to be contrary, and maybe because of his own history with prophecies. Being fucked over by one before he could even talk and having the majority of his life shaped by a few words can have that effect on a person. "They’re just words anyway, is there really any magic in them?"

 _Now_ he’s just saying the words to antagonise Draco. Maybe he’s itching for a fight, the words that will break the pressure that’s been building. His patience is running thin and it’s making him want to do something—anything, to break the tension. Almost disappointingly, Draco doesn’t rise to the bait, only observes Harry for a moment, before turning his attention back to his wine glass.

"Words _are_ magic." Draco reaches for his glass, swirls it around for a moment as he watches it. "They’re the most powerful thing we have."

The words seem to hang in the silence, and Draco chases them with a sip of his wine.

* * *

Harry takes their dishes to the kitchen and Draco follows along behind, watching with some humour as Harry runs the sink, spelling the water hot and then adding in a splash of washing-up liquid. 

"There are spells for that you know," Draco says, leaning against the kitchen bench. 

"I do know. I just prefer to do it by hand." It’s a holdover from years gone by, maybe. Washing dishes used to be another of his chores, and the Dursleys rarely bothered him while he was cooking. It had been a little space of solitude and safety for Harry in those days, a place he didn’t have to worry about what he was doing, or who was watching him. He was left alone when he was cooking—and definitely left alone with the washing up, no one ever wanted to help out with that. He used to work so hard at it, thinking that maybe if he could prepare a meal that was _just right_ the Dursleys might start to think of him as family. Maybe then Vernon would stop glaring at him and instead tell him he did a good job, maybe Petunia would ruffle his hair and place a kiss on his head like she did Dudley, and maybe Dudley might invite him along for kickabout with his friends.

It hadn’t worked, of course, and now Harry can look back and see that he was never going to make the perfect meal, was never going to be the child they wanted. 

There was a time when he hadn’t been able to cook food in the kitchen. Every time he’d try he’d be overtaken by panic about it being _not good enough_ , the thought of disappointing everyone. It didn’t make sense that it was worse around the people he’d loved, more than it had ever been around the family who’d hardly cared for him, but it was almost debilitating. That had taken years to work through, with a lot of help from Ron and Hermione.

But even when he couldn’t bring himself to cook in the kitchen, it was still his safe space. A place to come when he needed some space from everything.

Now, making food for people brings him happiness, the act of creating something and taking care of the people in his life both wrapped up together. Washing the dishes closes it out, and there’s something calming about the act of washing, drying, and putting everything away. The rest of his house is a bit of a mess, but his kitchen is clean, everything in its place, even if the places seem to be chosen by the house itself.

"If you’re going to just stand there you may as well help." Harry throws a tea towel at Draco, the towel limply hitting Draco on the chest. Draco catches it with one hand, scowling at it as if it’s offended him.

"And what am I supposed to do with this?"

"You can dry up," Harry says, placing the first plate on the drying rack.

Draco grumbles, but he complies, leaving his wine on the bench and moving beside Harry, hip checking him on the way through, body brushing against Harry’s and bumping him into the bench. It’s playful, but there’s also something comforting about it. It soothes Harry, helps him release the tension that has been building inside of him.

It also makes the house feel warmer, makes it feel more comfortable than Harry can remember in all the weeks he’s been living here. This is what he’s been missing, the comfort and familiarity of being in someone else’s space. 

It’s the first time since he moved here that Harry thinks maybe he really could _live_ here, could see this place becoming his _home_.

He wants that. 

Which means he needs to sort out the problem at hand.

"So the house," Harry says, hands still wrist-deep in the sudsy water, "what do we need to do to… make it mine I guess? If that’s what needs to be done."

Harry turns to Draco, and he’s got his puzzle face on again, and the furrow of his brow that means he has bad news—or at least not _good_ news. 

"I don’t know," Draco admits after a beat of silence, and Harry thinks there’s more to it than that, but he can wait Draco out for the explanation. He’s had years of practice. "I’m not sure what we can do because I’m not sure what’s going on. As far as I can see there’s no explanation for how the house is even still alive. It needs a master, but it doesn’t appear to have one."

"Maybe it doesn’t need one? Maybe it’s its own master?"

"It doesn’t work like that," Draco says with a grimace. "Houses need someone to tie themselves to."

"But Grimmauld doesn’t?" Harry tries to make the words gentle, pointing them out with a question. There’s no quicker way to turn Draco’s mood than by pointing out when he’s _wrong_ and Harry’s enjoying himself too much to do that, doesn’t want to risk pissing Draco off. Not when Draco’s in his living room, not when Harry wants—needs to know what’s going on, and especially not when Harry’s genuinely enjoying himself. 

"It has to though," Draco says, frustrated. "It’s like a plant; you can have some plants which thrive with lots of sunlight, and some which can survive on very little, but they all need sunlight at the end of the day. Some can survive without light for a period, but eventually the plant needs the sun or it will die." 

Trust Draco to bring it back to plants.

"A plant needs sun, and a living house needs magic, its very own source of sunlight. Usually that would be the master of the house. It’s a trade off, your magic sustains the house and keeps the house running. You care for the house and the house cares back. If you don’t, well"—Draco grimaces—"it doesn’t work out well in those cases."

Harry winces in sympathy. Those are the cases he’s read about. The houses that go bad, the people that get caught up in them.

"Is there a chance that could happen here?" Harry asks—he’d not really considered it, not seriously anyway. "Are we safe here?"

Draco shrugs. "I don’t think it’s worth worrying about now. If it was going to happen it would have by now."

It doesn’t make Harry feel much better.

Maybe he had known, really, that the house wasn’t safe. He’s not had people 'round since he moved in, and even then he’s only accepted as much help as he's had to. There’s been something in the house that’s given him chills, put him on edge, and it’s been wearing him thin even as he’s been trying to ignore it, to pretend that maybe if he just gets on with it that it might set itself right. _But when has that ever worked for me?_ It's a sick twist of fate that he’s just realising that maybe there isn’t anything he can do about the house at the same time he realises he does want it, wants Grimmauld Place and the home that may be on offer. He’s learnt over the years not to get his hopes up, of the futility of wishing for things and how much more it hurts when he _can’t_ have them. It’s happened before.

He’s never had a home, why would he have thought he could have one now?

The crack startles Harry, dragging him from his thoughts quickly and efficiently.

 _It’s happening now_ , Harry has a moment to think, and then he shuts it down—unhelpful, no time to panic, only to move, to act. Find the source, neutralise it, which would be a whole lot easier if only he hadn’t left his wand in the other room. _What was he fucking thinking? The house is going to come down around them and four years of training will be all for nothing because he left his wand behind in a dangerous house._ It’s almost hysterical in the ridiculousness of it, years of _constant vigilance_ being trained into him, and for all the dangerous things he’s done, all he’s survived, a fucking _house_ is what is going to take him out. 

Moody will be turning in his grave.

A hand at his shoulder cuts off his thoughts—and it was panic he realises now, hands still stuck in the fucking sink and _what the fuck?_ The touch can only be Draco, and he’ll know what to do, Harry can always rely on Draco on the field. Harry turns, lifting his hands out of the soapy water and making a fucking _mess_.

 _Red_ is what he sees first, red on Draco’s hands held out in front of him. 

_It got him_ , Harry thinks, thoughts still swirling. His mind feels like the Ford Anglia, stalling out in mid-air and _why didn’t he grab his fucking wand?_

"Harry," Draco says, sounding almost frantic as his hands shake Harry’s shoulder. "Harry, it’s okay, the glass just cracked."

When Harry looks down he can see the blood on Draco's hands, seeping red into Harry's shirt where he's grabbed him. There’s a bloody tea towel on the floor and past it Harry can see shards of glass—one of the water glasses Harry had washed only moments before. His stomach swoops, the relief turning in his stomach. He feels a little sick, and a lot stupid, and mostly just fucking _relieved_.

Harry's heart is still racing, the adrenaline still pumping in his veins even if it's not needed. His head is rushing still, thoughts racing, like _fuck_ , and _trust Malfoy to wipe his bloody hands on me_ , and then _shit, glass_.

Harry's wearing socks, and they don't give him much protection against the glass, but it's more than Draco with his bare feet. It’s almost entirely instinct, years of training making the reaction almost as natural as breathing; identify the danger, neutralise it, remove yourself from the vicinity. He doesn’t even think about it, just acts, turning and gripping Draco by the hips, years of Quidditch and Auror training making the movement easier than even he would have expected. He lifts Draco to the bench in one smooth movement.

Draco yelps and his hands grip tighter on his shoulders, fingers digging in almost painfully.

"What the fuck Harry?" Draco exclaims, hands relaxing but not releasing their hold. 

There’s not much he can do to answer that. The added height of the bench makes Harry have to look up at him more than the usual couple of inches Draco has on him. It’s too much, Draco’s eyes focusing on him and seeing. Harry feels overwhelmed by it all, by the closeness, and the disaster that wasn’t still has his heart racing and his body ready for a fight that isn’t happening. Draco’s still looking at him, Harry still has his hands on Draco’s hips, Draco’s hands are still on his shoulders, and _Draco’s still looking at him_. His grey eyes are crystal-clear and tinged with worry, concern, and something else Harry can't identify. Harry feels caught in them, can’t look away.

"I think I'll live." There’s a joke there, in Draco’s words, but his voice wavers a little, like he’s uncertain too.

"I’ll be the judge of that," Harry says, trying to break the tension, but his voice sounds broken even to his own ears.

His pulse is still thundering, remnants of the shock maybe, but perhaps something else as well. Harry’s treated Draco’s injuries more times than he can remember, and Draco’s done the same to him, but there’s something else here now. He should step away, should break the contact and this moment between them, but Harry can’t think of anything worse than doing that. He slides his left hand up Draco’s hip, over his ribs to his shoulder, tries not to think of the feel of Draco’s body beneath him as he moves to take Draco’s elbow, pulling at his arm until Draco’s bloodied hand drops from Harry’s shoulder. Harry takes it in both of his, bringing it between them to get a good look at it.

There’s blood, more than he would have expected, but he knows from experience that hands always bleed a lot. It takes a moment to locate the wound, rolling Draco’s hand in his own as he looks it over. He finds it on the side of Draco’s hand, just below the junction of his pinky finger. It’s not a large cut, but it looks like it might be deep and it’s still bleeding. 

Harry is so close he can feel the puffs of Draco’s breath against him. He’s still holding Draco’s hand in his own, still looking at it, watching as the blood still leaches from Draco’s hand, but he can barely focus on it for the feel of Draco. It feels like he’s hyper aware of everything Draco, from the sound of his breathing, to the feel of his hand beneath him. He should be doing something, should be practising the wound care he’s had drilled into him since the day he started, but he can hardly think, can’t even remember the first step, when it’s like his brain is chanting Draco, Draco, _Draco_. He presses down on the skin almost accidentally, and Draco releases a hiss of pain, startling Harry into looking up at him, hand still clasped between them.

"Fuck this," Draco mutters, and then he has his wand in his hand, muttering an _Episkey_ at his own finger.

He throws his wand behind him—bad form that, Robards would pitch a fit—and Draco’s hands are back on him, one finding his shoulder, the other coming to his hip. He tugs Harry in until their bodies connect, and it’s like a Warming Charm where they touch and Harry bites back a moan, bringing his own hands to Draco’s hips. 

"You really should clean that," Harry says, a little stupidly. His brain is struggling right now. Other areas of him aren’t, though.

"I don’t give a flying fuck," Draco says sharply. "I’ll take a potion later."

Harry’s expecting it when Draco closes the distance, lips sealing against his own. For how long, he’s not sure. The last few moments, definitely. Since the incident with the wine glass, probably. But possibly since before then, maybe since he invited Draco to his house, maybe since they started going out to the pubs on Friday nights. He’s not even sure that fits really. It feels like longer and it’s probably wrong, but it feels like it’s been coming as long as he can remember, that he’s _always_ wanted this. The desire is there, and it’s almost like he can’t remember a time when it wasn’t.

Draco kisses like fire, hot and all-consuming. Harry’s hands feel stuck to Draco, like anchors tying them together, but Draco’s hands move, the hand on Harry's hip sliding up to his ribs, the one one on his shoulder sliding to his neck, thumb brushing against his jaw line. Draco's touch makes Harry yearn, makes his mouth fall open on a groan, makes his own hands grip tighter as Draco slips his tongue into Harry’s mouth. 

Harry captures Draco’s moan in his mouth. He feels hungry: for Draco’s moans, for the taste of him, for everything Draco’s giving him. He tries to get as close as he can to Draco, pressing up along the bench. His knee knocks against the wood cupboard, startling him into breaking the kiss and hissing in pain.

Draco bursts out a laugh. 

"It’s not funny," Harry grits out, even if it is a little. It’s difficult to find the humour when it feels like he fucking broke his knee, though. He straightens it out tentatively and grimaces at the flash of pain. He leans forward, resting his head against Draco’s chest. "A little sympathy might be nice. That really hurt."

"Harry, if I start giving you sympathy now, it’ll never stop. I just don’t have the energy to keep up with all your injuries."

Harry opens his mouth to defend himself—it isn’t _that_ often, even if it is more often than Draco, but that’s always been how they work, and besides, he wouldn’t rush in so often if he didn’t know Draco had his _back_ —but before he can say anything Draco brings his hands up to Harry’s chest, pushing him back and away from Draco.

The noise he makes is probably closer to a whine than he’d like, and Draco raises an eyebrow at him before sliding off the kitchen bench.

"The glass," he points out, stepping closer to Draco. It’s automatic, an instinct to protect him with his body, even if that’s not practical here.

Draco mutters a _Reparo_ , and Harry watches as the glass puts itself back together in front of them both, setting itself gently down on the table next to the sink.

"We’re _wizards_ , Harry," Draco says with a roll of his eyes that Harry would be able to hear in his voice even if he didn’t see it. "And I was thinking we could get out of here, since the kitchen doesn’t seem to be a very safe space for either of us."

Draco’s hands come up to Harry’s hips as Draco steps towards Harry, crowding into him. This close, Harry can make out the freckles painted across Draco's cheekbones. His gaze moves from Draco’s cheeks to his eyes. They’re not actually grey, he notices, or not _just_ grey anyway, there are colours there, pale flecks of blue and green that dot his irises.

Draco’s lips are red against his pale skin, standing out more than usual, almost like when he’s been biting at them, the way he does when he's going over the notes of a particularly tricky case. It takes Harry a moment to realise it’s because of _him_ , and when he does he can’t help the groan that falls from his lips. He wants to make them redder, swollen and bruised, and Harry doesn’t fight the urge, chases it like he chases Draco’s lips, sealing them with his own.

Draco groans, hands pressing harder against Harry's hips. Harry moans, presses his body in even closer. He brings one hand up to Draco’s neck, the other snaking around to Draco’s back, keeping their bodies pressed tight together.

It’s almost comical how much he wants this, how much the want ignites a fire inside of him. The want has been inside him for so long but Harry’s been pressing it down, and now he’s acknowledged it, it’s like opening the floodgates. 

Harry wants Draco, wants all of him. Wants to mark him up and make Draco _his_.

He’s never been good at taking things slow—Harry’s an all-in sort of person. He makes a decision and sticks with it, and he’s always been that way about relationships too. Even if he’s been having a harder time actually _making_ decisions lately, this is a surprisingly easy decision to make. He just lets himself _want_.

Even smothered into Harry’s lips Draco’s moans are like a drug, and Harry wants more. He wants to hear every noise Draco makes, but he also can’t even consider breaking away to hear them. Draco pushes against him, and Harry rolls his hips, sending shocks of pleasure through his body.

Draco presses in closer, and Harry presses back, gasping into Draco's mouth, and then, when Draco breaks the kiss, into his shoulder. Harry's head is spinning, the want and need twisting up inside him. He wants Draco, needs Draco, and he takes, pressing their bodies tight together and giving back every thrust that he's given. 

Until Draco pulls away from him. Harry's already chasing him without even thinking about it, but Draco uses the distance, small though it is, to get his hands on Harry's hips and _push_. 

"Harry," Draco gasps out, "move." 

If the hard press of Draco's cock just moments ago wasn't enough to let Harry know how into this Draco is, the look of him now definitely is. 

Draco is flustered, in the way he so rarely lets other people see. Harry's seen it on only a few occasions himself, and even then only briefly before the mask slips across his features once again. Harry isn't so naïve as to think Draco isn't affected by things, but he knows Draco doesn't like people to see him like that. Harry can understand; there's something personal about letting someone see the effect something has on you written across your face. 

Harry's seeing it now though. Draco's hair is a state, his already messy bun losing its fight against gravity. He's flushed, lips red and bruised. His pupils are dilated, and if Harry were in the field he'd be checking for the influence of a spell, but instead he knows it's _him_ making Draco look this way. 

"Move," Draco says again and steps forward, and this time Harry gets the point, walks his feet backwards along with Draco's.

It’s like a dance—and much like every dance Harry’s ever tried, he’s not great at it. He can’t bring himself to turn around, instead letting Draco set both his pace and trajectory. They bump into the doorway, then the coffee table, but Harry gets to continue mouthing his way along Draco’s jaw, teasing the skin there. When they finally stop and Harry pulls back, he’s pleased to see marks already starting to form, proud of the progress he’s making at marking Draco up, making him _his_.

"Fuck it," Draco mumbles, and he’s pushing Harry back again. Harry goes, doesn’t even consider resisting. 

Harry makes contact with the sofa and goes down with a soft thump, not that he has any choice in the matter. Draco’s in his space before he even has a moment to find a comfortable position, climbing into his lap with far more grace than Harry had before him. Draco’s hands slide under his shirt, pushing it up his chest, fingers tracing over skin and muscles. The light touch is enough to have Harry gasping, hands shooting out to hold onto Draco’s arse, gripping tight to hold him close as he thrusts up against Draco’s body. 

Harry’s fingers are just trying to make their way underneath Draco’s waistband when Draco shoves up his shirt, pulling his arms up to strip it off him. Harry gets up to speed quickly, reaching for Draco’s shirt buttons, fumbling with the first few, before giving a frustrated groan, and yanking at the fabric. Draco takes pity on him, leaning back to pull it off without bothering with the rest of the buttons. It’s too tight and it gets a little stuck. Draco has to shimmy a little which does amazing things where he’s sitting on Harry’s groin. Harry runs his hands up Draco’s torso, almost as if he’s helping, but really just to take Draco in. Harry’s seen him topless before of course, seen the lines of his scars, the tattoos Draco got during what he somewhat affectionately calls his _wild years_.

Draco finally removes the shirt, throwing it somewhere that Harry could literally not care less about. Draco's hair has finally won the battle against its tie, falling down around his ears and his neck. Harry wants to card his fingers through it and _pull_.

"Copping a feel there Harry?" he asks with a lift of his eyebrow.

"Yes," Harry admits, because he’s been caught red-handed and there’s no point in lying. "Can you blame me?"

"Not even the great Harry Potter can resist my body." 

There’s a truth in that, but it’s something more. Harry’s never been much for bodies. It’s the person in front of him, and yes Draco’s body is attractive, the _things_ Harry would like to do to it, _fuck_ , but it’s _all_ of him: the the lift of his eyebrow, the way he makes tea, the way he rolls his eyes at Harry when he’s not paid attention in the briefing, and how Draco then re-explains it all, better, in ways that make sense.

It’s probably too much too fast, but Harry’s never been very good at anything less than giving his all. He doesn’t do one night stands. There’s no love at first sight for Harry. He finds people attractive but that's all there is. If there's nothing else there it's just… lifeless, and he's tried before but it just leaves him feeling a bit empty afterwards. Fuck, it took years for him to want Ginny like that and he's not really had anything more successful since then—a sad fact, but a true one. But Draco, fuck, Draco's been on his radar for long enough to be a constant alert, and Harry does want, feels that familiar tug but he doesn't know how to close the distance, to initiate. He's grown rusty, the skills atrophied from lack of use. Even touches leave him feeling hot and bothered and fuck, Harry can't think for the want. 

Maybe this is something inside of him, maybe it's a result of being the Chosen One. It's hard to find a relationship when you're wondering why, why, _why_ are these people talking to me, and maybe he let that get to him a little, and maybe he let the desire for a relationship slip away. He was just as happy living with Ron and Hermione, and maybe he would have been fine staying there forever, the third wheel to their relationship. 

Stagnating, Dean called it. Lazy, George called it. Hermione confessed to him once that Molly had told her and Ron off for ‘enabling Harry in his loneliness’.

Everyone seemed to have an opinion on how Harry should be putting himself out there and _finding_ someone, but only Ron and Hermione had listened, had _accepted_ when he said that it didn’t work like that for him, and that he’d be fine without if it didn’t happen. That when it _does_ happen, it’s all the more worth it for him. When it does happen, it’s like a fire lit up inside him. It’s like right _now_.

"Couldn’t resist _you_ ," Harry clarifies, sealing the words with a kiss.

Harry tries to put all of his feelings into that kiss. It’s too early for the emotions he’s feeling, and he knows, _knows_ that if he were to say any of it Draco would run, maybe not forever, but he would, and there’s nothing Harry wants to do to scare Draco away. The feelings are his own, and he channels them instead into his kiss, to say with his lips what he can’t say with his voice. It must work in some way, because Draco quickly gets back on board. It’s a fumble then, a rush of fingers, Harry and Draco’s. Harry gets Draco’s trousers undone, pushing them down enough that he can get his hands on the skin of Draco’s arse. It’s so much hotter skin on skin, and Draco seems to think the same, fingers shoving at Harry's waistband, tugging until they get stuck between his body and the sofa cushions.

It’s a necessary evil to seperate, Draco sliding off his lap and giving him some space, before tugging at Harry’s hips. Harry lifts his hips off the sofa obediently, letting Draco strip him of his trousers and pants. Draco even takes the time to pull off Harry’s socks. There’s something about that, either in the act itself or the tenderness in which Draco does it which warms Harry's insides. Draco shoves his own trousers and pants down, stepping out of them and kicking them aside, and then he’s standing naked in front of Harry.

It’s a little rushed, but Harry wants to savour this moment, to sear it into his memory as, if not the first time he’s seen Draco naked—going through training and being partners with someone means there’s little he hasn’t seen of Draco—then the first time he really gets to look. He shoots his hands out to hold Draco where he is and looks up at him from his position on the sofa.

Draco’s muscled like Harry—they both bulked up during their training days, and while there’s definitely been some softening around the edges, Harry knows Draco works hard to keep the muscles he gained, and it shows. Draco’s skin is like a canvas, painted with scars and ink. Harry’s seen them before, but not like this. Some scars he knows: the lines of the Sectumsempra, forever etched into Draco’s skin and Harry’s mind. There are some he thinks he knows: a cluster low on Draco's left rib, a slash across his bicep. There are still more he doesn’t know the origin of: marks on his arms, his thighs. The tattoos he’s familiar with—the bright oranges and reds of the feather on his forearm that wraps around Draco’s Mark. It doesn’t obscure it—because Harry knows Draco thinks of it as something he will have to carry till the day he dies—but it takes away some of the starkness, takes away its focus. The flowers on his ribs Harry’s seen as well, the grey cluster of stems that sit on his side. 

The dragon is what draws most of Harry's attention though. He’s seen it before, but less often than the others. When Harry’s seen it before it’s usually partially obscured, the dragon’s head poking out from beneath Draco’s layers. It starts just below his ribs, spreading down over his hip and ending on his thigh, with flowers clutched tightly in its claws. Harry’s not sure of the breed, he's not even sure if it is an actual breed of dragon, or an amalgamation. Charlie would be able to tell him probably, but it’s not like he can ask _hey mate can you identify Draco’s tattoo for me?_. 

His fingers drift over the tattoo, skirting over the grey lines, feeling the bones beneath them, and Harry leans forward to place a kiss on Draco’s hip, just shy of the dragon. 

Above him, Draco groans, hands coming to rest on Harry’s shoulders, fingers squeezing firmly. One of Draco’s hands moves from his shoulder to his neck, then the hair at his nape. He pulls Harry’s head back, leaning down to seal Harry’s lips with his own, kissing Harry with enough force to push him back on the sofa.

Harry’s head is spinning when Draco pulls away. Draco straightens up, rolls his back, and then drops to his knees right in front of the sofa.

He knows Draco got around a bit, in his _wild years_. It's not something Harry knew at the time—they were barely colleagues back then and definitely not friends—but it's something he knows from throwaway comments, both from Draco and from people in their group of friends. Harry and Draco became friends later, but Draco's experience has always been something Harry's been curious about. The hot sort of curiosity that intermingles with something else, maybe. The kind that makes him want to ask questions, want to get every single detail, while simultaneously wanting to know nothing about it. 

Now, it sends a hot flush through his stomach, Draco looking up at him like that. Harry likes the look of him there, likes the way he runs his hands over Harry's thighs more. Draco’s hands drift to Harry's arse, gripping tight and pulling at him, urging him forward to sit on the edge of the sofa. Harry’s so hard, it feels like he’s been hard an age. His cock is practically waving in Draco’s face, and there’s no question of where this is going, even if Draco has barely spared a look at his cock, still maintaining eye contact with Harry. Draco’s fingers trace over Harry’s legs, fingers running through sparse hair, and then coarser hair as his hands drift closer to Harry's groin. One hand comes to Harry's stomach, rubbing, and his other hand finds Harry’s cock, squeezing firmly enough to make Harry groan. And then finally, _finally_ , Draco breaks the eye contact that was becoming almost suffocating and bends forward to take Harry’s cock in his mouth.

He wants to watch, to take it all in, but he only sees Draco’s lips wrapping around his cock, feels the heat of it, before his eyes fall shut, and it takes every single ounce of his self control just to remind himself to _breathe_.

He lets out a shuddering gasp. It sounds wrecked already, even to Harry’s ears, and if that and the building pressure in his groin are anything to go by then this is going to be a startlingly short affair. Harry forces his eyes open again. It’s a divine torture, watching Draco as he moves his mouth up and down on his cock. Draco’s good at this, his mouth, his lips, his hands, his fucking _eyes_ that don’t look away, that are still locked on Harry even as his lips are wrapped around Harry’s cock, as his hands stroke over him. He’s got one hand low on Harry’s stomach, fingers petting the coarse hair while the other grips Harry’s thigh, fingers digging into the muscle, and sending tendrils of pleasure shooting through him.

Harry’s hands are lying on the outside of his legs, and he can’t remember when they let go of their hold on Draco. It takes a momentous effort to move them but he does, a hand coming up to cup Draco’s cheek, fingers dancing over the red marks forming there. The other finds its way to Draco’s hair, tangling in the strands, not pulling, just holding on. Harry wants to mark him up, to come all over his pretty skin. It's a filthy desire, but now that's he's thought of it it's all he can think of. Draco’s eyes fall shut and he moans around Harry’s cock, the vibrations shooting straight through Harry, and it hits him like a steam train that he's about a hair's breadth away from coming.

Harry's fingers close into a fist in Draco's hair. He pulls, lightly at first and then harder when Draco only moans around him. 

"Please," Harry pleads. He's so close he can hardly remember why he's trying to get Draco off him, only that he _wants_. "Please," he gasps again, fingers tugging at Draco's hair, hard enough that it must hurt. Eventually Draco goes, pulling off Harry’s cock with a filthy wet noise. 

Draco's breathing as hard as Harry, lips red and swollen, hair a mess from Harry’s hands in it. Harry uses that hold, threading his fingers into the strands to pull Draco up and onto his lap to kiss him.

Draco makes a noise of protest but Harry ignores it, kissing Draco’s mouth and tasting the traces of himself on Draco’s tongue. 

His other hand wraps around Draco pulling him in tight and pressing their bodies together. Harry groans, thrusts up, the wetness on his cock slipping against the line of Draco's stomach. Harry wants to see it, wants to see his cock sliding against the pale skin there, leaving a sticky line against Draco's skin and in the fine hair he knows grows there. But he can't stop kissing Draco either, kissing him like Draco holds the oxygen he needs to breathe, and it's only a few graceless ruts before Harry's coming, feels his cock spurt straight onto the skin there.

It’s one of those orgasms that feel all-consuming, so much better than his own hand late at night. He keeps his eyes open as long as he can, watches as he paints Draco’s skin with his come, but then it’s too much, and Harry falls back, eyes falling closed as he strokes himself through the rest of his orgasm.

It’s the sound of Draco’s breath and the instantly recognisable sound of wanking, along with the occasional bump of a firm hand against his own hot stomach, that brings Harry back around. The desire still flowing inside him is what makes him move. He wants to see Draco get off, he wants to help Draco get off. He wants Draco to get off on him, to mark Harry up like Harry just did to Draco. 

Harry releases the hold on his softening cock. His hand is sticky, covered in his own release, and a little sweaty if he’s honest. Draco’s got a hand on his own cock, and Harry doesn’t know when that happened but he wraps his own hand around Draco’s, delighting in Draco's ensuing moan. Harry starts moving them both, squeezing tighter and forcing Draco to stroke a little faster, a little firmer. 

Draco’s breath is starting to stutter, hips jerking, and Harry doesn’t let it ease up, even as their hands bump into his stomach. Draco’s torso is right in front of him, so he drops his head, finding the skin next to his nipple and kissing it at first, and then taking the skin between his teeth to bite down.

Draco groans, the sound rumbling through his chest, and then Harry feels the hot spurts against his stomach and chest. He lets his hand go loose, lets Draco guide the movements as he strokes himself through it, longer than Harry would for his own orgasms. He files that piece of information away for the future, and hopes he’ll get a chance to use it.

Draco leans forward, head dropping partially onto Harry’s head with an almost lazy moan. 

Harry understands the sentiment.

Moving out of the question, he slides them sideways, laying them down on the sofa, Harry on his back with Draco on top of him. It’s almost too much effort to reach his wand on the coffee table, and only the thought of the come drying between them stops him from abandoning it completely. He’s not keen on waking up fused together. Either way it still takes all his willpower, and the wand might jump the last few inches into his fingertips, he really can't be sure. He casts the _Scourgify_ , feeling the familiar cleansing breeze run over them; it’s not ideal but it will have to do for now. Draco mumbles something and snuggles in closer, arms half wrapping around Harry, and if there’s one thing Harry wouldn’t have guessed it's Draco being a post-orgasm snuggler. 

He takes his glasses off, not even bothering to fold them before dropping them to the floor. Finding them again is a future Harry problem, one he really can’t be arsed caring about right now. Harry's last act is to _Accio_ a blanket to the sofa. It’s the hand quilted one from Molly, and she’d likely faint if she knew what Harry was using it for, but she’s not here, and Harry’s truly past the point of caring by now. He lays it over them both, tries his best to cover their feet, wraps an arm around Draco, and then lets his eyes fall shut.

* * *

The first thing Harry registers when he wakes is the warmth of someone in his arms.

It’s still dark out, but he’s always been a light sleeper, waking up at the whistle of the wind. The old house is noisy too, with frequent creaks and groans—all normal noises, Hermione had assured him, but it’s been weeks and Harry’s still not quite used to them, still finds himself waking up on edge when he hears a noise he can’t immediately identify. He usually makes sure to sleep with his wand within reaching distance—and he knows he left his wand around here somewhere, but he can’t quite remember where, and right now he can’t be bothered to care.

It's been so long since he's had this. The last time he shared a bed with someone was with Hermione and Ron and it wasn't like this. It's not for lack of options, which always makes Harry feel a bit shit when he thinks it, but it's true. He's not felt comfortable with another human being like this for longer than he'd like, since Ginny maybe, and that's a thought that feels sad, so Harry buries his head in tighter against Draco's neck. His friends are always trying to set him up with someone, but it never seems right. Besides, dating as the Chosen One has never really come easily. It's hard when there's a whole section of his life they'll never understand, could never understand, and sometimes when they try to it only makes things worse. 

Draco knows what it was like then, has an understanding that can only come from being stuck right in the middle of it, even if he was on the other side. 

There are marks they still bear, some more literal than others. 

It usually takes Harry a while to feel comfortable around people. He rarely shares space with others, and when he does it's a gradual process. The first nights he shared with Ginny were plagued with restlessness, as he worked through the unfamiliarity of intimately sharing a space with another. Maybe because the Dursleys were never cuddly with him, maybe because he never got to experience the sleepovers that other kids had, or maybe it’s just something about _him_ , maybe he always would have had an anxiety around touching, about the proximity of another person.

It’s not a surprise he’s awake then; it’s more surprising that he fell asleep in the first place. Even more surprising is the fact that the only thing Harry wants to do is wrap his arms more firmly around Draco, to get even closer into his space.

It feels natural, the way Draco fits into his arms. It feels _easy_ , which isn’t something Harry usually thinks about relationships. Crossing the line from friends to something more has never been something Harry’s done well.

Maybe it’s because they’ve already had to come so far just to get to friends. Maybe it’s because of the way they already work so well together, whether that’s working a case, in the field, or in the kitchen like earlier. They’ve already moved past the point of being able to fit into each other's space, and now Draco’s moved a little bit closer and it feels like it's just a natural progression of their relationship.

At some stage during the night they must have shifted to sleeping on their sides, Harry pressed up against the back of the sofa and Draco facing Harry, their bodies pressed close together. It’s a minor miracle that neither of them had fallen off the sofa even considering the arm Harry has wrapped around Draco. 

Harry wraps it tighter still, pulls Draco in as close as he can, and Draco makes a little sleepy groan and nuzzles in closer. It’s not something Harry would usually initiate, but he finds himself leaning into it, finding comfort in the feeling of someone else beside him. He's content just to lie with Draco, even if he can’t fall back asleep again.

He thinks he does fall asleep, lulled by the warmth of Draco in his arms, his own breathing evening out. Time seems to pass without him being aware of it, and when he hears a noise coming from another room, all hint of sleep races away from him like the Snitch when it knows it’s been spotted.

The noise comes again—there are definite footsteps and other noises too, things being moved, perhaps a door opening and closing.

"Draco." Harry gives him a shake, and Draco makes a small noise of protest, the sound smothered slightly into his chest.

Harry watches as Draco blinks his eyes open and sees the moment Draco registers the noises. His eyes fly open, his gaze darting around before he meets Harry’s own gaze.

"Kitchen?" Draco mouths, the words barely more than an exhale against Harry’s skin.

Harry nods.

The move silently, falling into sync with ease. Harry finds his glasses and his wand, then his trousers, foregoing his pants to pull them on as quietly as he can, leaving the button undone. Draco finds his pants from wherever they were, sliding them on with ease. By silent agreement Harry moves first, wand drawn and ready. Draco might not have his wand, but he’s still an asset, there’s still no one else Harry would have at his back.

Harry moves to the wall by the doorframe and Draco follows, sliding in beside him. He waits there a moment, readying himself for what he might find. Despite what his fellow Aurors may think, Harry knows to wait before rushing in. He always waits for his partner to be ready, and when Draco taps at his forearm, that's all the sign he needs.

Carefully, wand raised and ready, Draco at his back, Harry leans to peer around the doorframe, then leaps into the kitchen.

Draco makes a noise of protest and follows anyway.

The kitchen is clean, which isn’t what Harry had been expecting. He knows he left half a sink of dishes, not to mention the dishes that Draco hadn’t got around to drying. There’d been their wine glasses too—but they’re nowhere to be seen.

The kitchen is sparkling; Harry usually keeps it clean, but it’s nothing compared to this. 

And standing in the middle of the floor, with a dour expression, is a face he hasn’t seen in years.

"Kreacher!"

The house-elf looks just as unfriendly as he remembers, back hunched over and arms hanging by his sides. Harry can’t tell if he’s unhappy to see him, unhappy in general, or if that’s just his resting expression.

Kreacher gives a somewhat tired-sounding groan and turns to face Harry.

Harry’s still got his wand out, pointing squarely at Kreacher. He drops his arm, letting it hang at his side.

"I—what are you doing?"

"The mess displeased Master," Kreacher says, sounding disapproving and tired. "Master asked Kreacher to clean the mess up."

"I didn’t ask you to clean this up."

"Master asked Kreacher," Kreacher repeats. 

Harry bites down on the groan, threads the fingers of his empty hand into his trousers, pinching the material. Talking with Kreacher has always been an exercise in frustration.

"Master, was it?" Draco asks, stepping out from beside Harry. He walks over to the bench where his wand was left last night. He leans against it and casually picks up his wand. "The Master of the house? And he asked you to clean up?" 

Kreacher nods. 

"That might explain it," Draco says, almost to himself. "Could you ask your Master if we could have a word with him?"

Kreacher nods again, disappearing in front of their eyes with a small pop.

"What does that mean?" Harry asks, turning to Draco.

"The house has another Master," Draco says, rotating his wand in his hand. "It explains why I wasn’t finding any connection between you and the house." 

"How is that possible?" 

"I don’t know," Draco admits, wrapping his arms around himself. He’s still only in his pants, and if Harry’s feeling the chill with trousers on, surely Draco must be too. Harry summons a jumper, and when it comes he tugs the jumper over Draco's head. Draco pulls a face, but he still threads his arms through the sleeves, lets Harry pull the jumper down over his torso. "I guess we’ll find out." 

Harry summoned the jumper without thinking too much of it, and the one that came was one of Molly’s hand-knitted sweaters, red with a big green H on the front. It’s one of his older ones, stretched out with the sleeves hanging loose, and it comes down to Draco’s thighs. Draco looks comfy leaning back against the kitchen bench. He’s a sight to behold, and Harry thinks he could get used to this, could imagine waking up to Draco in his pants and not much else, to sleepy mornings and shared clothes, to getting to kiss Draco whenever he wants.

To making a home—to having Draco be a part of it.

Harry steps in, closing the distance between them and sealing their lips together. Draco’s still leaning against the bench and Harry crowds into him, an echo of the kisses they shared earlier. These ones are gentler, the desperate edge from before tapered, turned softer. There’s an almost laziness to the kiss, to the way their bodies press together. Harry flicks his tongue over Draco’s lips, and Draco opens for him, letting Harry lick his way into Draco’s mouth. 

Someone clears their throat from behind them, and Harry breaks the kiss with more than a little reluctance, turning to see who's waiting for them.

 _It’s a ghost_ , he thinks on first glimpse, and then, _Sirius?_. As soon as the thought occurs to him he knows he’s wrong about it being Sirius. He’s right about being a ghost though—there’s an ethereal glow, and Harry can see through them too, can see through to the kitchen behind them. 

He does look familiar though. Familiar black hair and sharp cheekbones. There’s even something in his ghost's expression, the look on the ghost's face. Everything looks a bit familiar, but not, like seeing your reflection in a puddle.

When his eyes drift down to Kreacher, who's looking up at the ghost with affection, an expression he’s seen on Kreacher’s face only a couple of times, and it all slips into place.

"Are you… Regulus?" Harry asks haltingly. 

"Yes."

"I’m—" 

"I know who you are," Regulus interrupts. 

It’s a pure-blood thing maybe, the ability to put that level of disdain into his words. It cuts right through Harry.

"You’re Harry Potter. And you’ve been living in my house."

"It was left to me," Harry counters.

"And you left it empty. You left it to rot." 

Harry opens his mouth to retort, when Draco’s hand wraps around his wrist, squeezing tight. The action is familiar, and Harry bites back his words.

"You’ll have to forgive him," Draco says. "He wasn’t aware of the requirements of maintaining a house such as this. He didn’t realise the consequences of leaving it empty."

Regulus turns to Draco, taking him in, and Harry resists the urge to step in front of Draco, to shield him from the ghost. Not that it would do any good.

"I remember you," Regulus says, squinting his eyes at Draco. His voice has changed, from one of aggravation, to one of… curiosity almost. "You were Narcissa’s boy. She was so happy when you were born, I don’t think I’d ever seen her so happy in my life."

"I’m sorry," Draco says, "I don’t remember you."

Regulus waves the words aside with his hand. "You wouldn’t, you were only a baby at the time. Cissy and Lucius parading you around like you were the best thing that had ever happened to their family. Their precious heir." Regulus leans closer, inspecting Draco, and Harry can’t help it, he falls back a little, even as he grabs hold of Draco’s thigh and squeezes. There’s something unnerving about it all. From certain angles the resemblance to Sirius is uncanny, in his eyes, his nose, even the purse of his lips looks the same. It hurts a little, seeing it. "You’ve grown up a bit," Regulus finally says, with something that could almost be a smile.

"I’m surprised you recognised me."

"Your core still looks the same," Regulus says. "Besides, you look just like Narcissa. I don’t think you could be anyone but her son."

"Oh." Draco seems shaken by the words, and there’s a hint of red on his cheeks. "Thank you. I think she’d be pleased to know you’re back. She always spoke well of you."

"I’d be pleased to meet her again." 

"I’ll be sure to pass that on. I’m sure she would have visited had she known you’d been here this whole time."

"I don’t think I have been," Regulus says. He looks younger when his face pulls in confusion. He was only a teenager when he died, Harry remembers, another casualty of the war. "I wasn’t here. And then I was. I guess the house needed me. All I know is I woke up, the house was empty, and I didnt need to open any doors to get through them." Regulus shrugs, the action strange on his shoulders. "It was just Kreacher and I for a while, and then this one moved into the house."

Regulus pins him with a look, and Harry feels like maybe he should apologise for it. Says instead, "The house was left to me."

“Then where were you?” Regulus asks, voice rising. It has an eerie ring to it, something that sends a shiver down Harry’s spine, seems to be getting worse as his voice rises. “You didn’t seem to care, didn’t even check up on it, until suddenly you’re moving in like you own the place.”

Harry doesn’t think it would be helpful to point out that he does, in fact, own the house. He keeps his mouth shut instead. 

"And you’ve moved in but, do you even want to be here? You're hardly ever here—you’re not even unpacked!"

Harry can feel Draco’s glare from beside him, he ignores it. 

"I’ve been busy," Harry defends.

"If you don't want to be here you could just leave. I was perfectly happy without you here."

"I live here!" 

"I don’t think you even like it here. This was my home, it’s not yours." 

"But it could be mine," Harry says, and Draco looks at him. "Don’t I deserve the chance to at least try and make it my home?" _I deserve a home_ he feels like saying. When has he ever really had a home that was _his_? Not Privet Drive. Hogwarts had felt like a home—up until it wasn’t. The Burrow is a home—but there’s always a voice in his head that tells him it’s not _his_ home. The flat with Ron and Hermione had felt the closest, but even that had felt a bit like he was encroaching on others. Maybe the only home he ever had was that cottage in Godric’s Hollow—but it’s not like Harry can remember that.

Regulus turns away with a huff, and Harry is reminded of his own teenage tantrums. _Do ghosts mature?_ Or will Regulus be forever stuck in those years, when everything felt so acute, so strong. Everything felt so life and death back then—and fair enough, many of the things _had_ for Harry been back in those days, but it had been _everything_ , not just Voldemort, or the bloody prophecy hanging over his head, but also Quidditch, or an argument with Ron. Everything felt like it was the most important thing in his life—it’s only looking back that he can see how it wasn’t, how life went on even if you didn’t catch the Snitch—except, he guesses, when it doesn’t.

"Well it’s not your house, I won’t leave it to you if that’s what you want." Regulus shrugs and looks at Draco, "I’d pass the house over to you if you wanted it. I guess you’re next in line."

"That’s very kind of you," Draco says, "but the house was left to Harry. And there’s Teddy. Technically he’d be next in line if that were the case."

Regulus eyebrows furrow. "Who’s that?"

"Teddy’s my godchild." 

"He’s also Andromeda’s grandchild," Draco adds, and at that Regulus’ face flickers with a flash of recognition. 

"Andromeda was disowned," Regulus says.

"So was Sirius," Harry points out.

"Sirius left!" Regulus yells, and there’s anger yes, but hurt, too. Regulus is emotional—and that's different from most of the ghosts Harry knows. They tend to have a reservedness about them; it’s rare to see them get emotional, but with Regulus it’s like his emotions are right under the surface, ready to bubble over. Maybe it’s because he was so young when he died, maybe because he hasn’t been around long enough for the emotions to fade—but it reminds Harry of Sirius, who was always so much larger than life. 

Sirius, whom they’ve both lost.

"I’m sorry." Sorry for the loss of his brother, sorry for the war, and the fact that he lost Sirius well before that, sorry for everything that cost them all so much.

Regulus waves the words away dismissively, and just like that he is every bit the aristocat again, looking down his nose at Harry—which shouldn’t even be possible given that Harry has definitely got a few inches on him. 

"Well, it’s my house and I’m not leaving. I don’t want to." Regulus glares at Harry, crossing his arms. Harry thinks he might float up a few inches too. "You can’t make me leave."

Harry bites at his lips to contain the groan that's threatening to make its way out of him. Trust him to move into a house with a tantrum-throwing ghost.

"What if you did stay?" Draco suggests. Harry turns to look at Draco and out of the corner of his eye he sees Regulus do the same. "Why would you have to leave? It’s your house, and you’ve been taking care of it so well."

It’s Harry’s turn to glare, trying to put into a look the thought of _you’re not helping_.

"And Harry doesn’t know the first thing about taking care of a house like this—if Grimmauld was left to him it probably would end up rotting."

"Right," Regulus agrees, nodding along.

"So what if you both stayed?" 

"What?" Harry says at the same time as Regulus echoes the words.

"It’s fairly common for houses as old as Grimmauld to have ghosts," Draco tells Harry, "and it’s not like you’ve not lived with a ghost before." He turns to Regulus. "It must have been lonely, living here by yourself."

Regulus scowls.

"I have Kreacher," Regulus says, but it sounds almost like a question.

"Is that enough though? It’s okay to want more than that. And it might be nice, having someone else in the house. You never know, you might like it. Take it from someone who knows—Potter grows on you."

Draco knocks his shoulder against Harry’s, a small smile on his face, not the usual smirk he sends Harry’s way, or the grin he uses at work, or the baring of his teeth that makes you feel seen and caught all at the same time. It’s something else, a different smile all together, just between the two of them. Harry soaks it in, loses himself in the smile and Draco’s eyes for a moment.

"Okay," Regulus says, and Harry tears his gaze away from Draco. "I guess you can stay."

Regulus holds out his hand, and Harry stares at it a moment—does Regulus really want him to _shake on it_? The hand stays extended though, and Draco bumps their shoulders together, nodding his head in Regulus’ direction.

Harry steps forward, extends his hand jerkily. Regulus’ hand moves towards him and Harry instinctively flinches back. Not quick enough though, and the hand passes through his. It’s ice cold, sending a chill through his body, and Harry steps back, the edge of the kitchen bench stabbing into his back.

Regulus cackles and flies off straight through the kitchen wall. With a small _pop_ , Kreacher disappears too.

"Well that’s not going to end up biting me on the arse," Harry grumbles, wincing as he rubs at the spot on his back. It’s tender, but not as bad as the embarassment he feels for flinching from a fucking _ghost_. He’s an Auror for fuck's sake, he should know better.

"I think you’ll need to set some boundaries with him if you want to stay sane." Draco’s hand finds Harry’s back, rubbing the muscles there. Harry can’t help the moan that slips from his lips, doesn’t even try. Draco’s always been good at this, always knows just how to touch, his fingers working a special sort of magic. He wouldn’t mind feeling what else Draco could do with his hands.

"You know this is my house, right?

"Harry, take it from someone who shared a wing with a ghost who delighted in making our lives as unpleasant as possible. _Do not. Piss off. Your ghost_. If you want to stay in this house, you’ll need to find a way to live with him."

"Right." Harry lets his eyes fall shut, lets himself lean against Draco, relaxing into the press of his hands and the feel of his body. He could get used to this. 

He _wants_ to get used to this.

He is also definitely going to fall asleep if Draco keeps doing that.

"I think I’m ready to go back to sleep," Harry says, and as if summoned, a yawn escapes him. "What about you?"

"That depends entirely what you mean by that question, Harry. If you’re inviting me back to the sofa, I’d rather walk home."

"To a bed," Harry clarifies, "I didn’t think the sofa was that bad, though."

"It was alright," Draco admits, stepping away from Harry, and Harry mourns the loss immediately. 

"C’mon then." Harry slides his hand into Draco’s, laces their fingers together, squeezing them just because he can. Draco squeezes back, sending a flush of warmth through Harry’s chest. "Let’s go to bed."

* * *

**Epilogue**

"Having fun Ted?" Harry asks, reaching to run a hand through Teddy’s hair. Without looking away from the set of trains in front of him, Teddy ducks his head, avoiding Harry’s hand completely, the ends of his hair flashing pink as he does it. Sitting on the floor beside him, Regulus laughs. Harry barely resists the urge to poke out his tongue. He’s _technically_ the older person here.

Harry continues his way to the kitchen. He sets the charm on the kettle to boil, and sets out a cup, a tea bag, sugar, and milk as he waits for the water to heat up. The act calms him a little. He can still hear the noise coming in from outside, the voices and laughter. It’s all going swimmingly, everyone’s having a great time, but it’s just… _a lot_. He needs a break.

"I think Teddy is definitely having fun."

Harry looks up to see Draco leaning against the wall, holding a glass of wine. Wine seems to magically find its way into Draco’s hand in Grimmauld Place—just another perk of your ghost cousin being in charge of the house, Harry guesses. 

"Do you want me to make that for you?" Draco asks, and Harry nods, steps aside, and then settles back against the bench and watches Draco work his tea magic.

"Teddy seems happy playing with Regulus." Draco takes the kettle from the stove and pours the water into the cup with the tea bag. "Regulus seems equally as happy."

"They’re having fun," Harry agrees, watching as Draco stirs in the sugar for the tea. "Everyone seems to be having fun, don’t you think?" There’s a neediness in his voice, a need for confirmation that this is going well, that someone else thinks it’s going well too.

"Harry, it’s going amazing. The party is a blast. Teddy will remember this for years to come and will always look back and go, ' _if only all my parties could be as good as my sixth birthday that Uncle Harry threw me_.'"

"Oh shut it, you," Harry says, waiting for Draco to finish with the tea. The moment he places the tea bag in the bin, Harry is crowding into Draco’s space. He pulls Draco into his arms, buries his head in the nape of Draco’s neck, and feels the warmth of his skin as he inhales his scent. He could stay here all day. Draco presses back into him, lining their bodies together. He groans into Draco’s neck, biting down on the skin warningly. "Don’t," he says, "there are children around. Teddy’s in the hallway."

"Regulus is with him," Draco mumbles. "We can take a moment."

"Have you thought any more about the job offer?" The expected offer had come through from Cold Cases earlier in the week. Harry had been quick to decline, but he knew Draco had yet to give them an answer. There’s a chance Draco will take it, and the thought doesn’t scare Harry like it used to. Maybe it’s because Draco’s been spending nights over at Grimmauld Place, maybe because they have something growing between them, and Harry knows they’re both the sorts to at least see where this goes, to follow it through even if it’s not the easiest path to take. There are few things that can stop either of them, once they decide on a course of action.

"Mmm, I’m still undecided. If I did take the offer, do you think you’d be able to survive without me?"

"I survived perfectly fine without you before you were my partner," Harry points out. “But I would miss you." 

"We couldn’t have that now could we?" Draco says, with a laugh. 

"It could be dangerous," Harry agrees. "I might need to find another way to get my Draco fix.”

Draco pulls back, captures Harry’s lips in a kiss that _definitely_ doesn’t do anything to help with the tightness in his pants.

"I think that can be arranged."

**Author's Note:**

> So I mean _technically_ Regulus died in 1979 and then Draco was born in 1980. But like. We don’t for reals know when Regulus died right? So it could have been later. Just pretend it was later.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Now with bonus amazing art of Draco's forearm tattoo from [gnarf](https://gnarf.tumblr.com/) available [here](https://gnarf.tumblr.com/post/190205554503/the-tattoos-hes-familiar-withthe-bright-oranges). Please do check it out!!
> 
> Comments and Kudos give me life  
> Find me at tumblr at [candybarrnerd](http://candybarrnerd.tumblr.com/).
> 
> You can find a rebloggable claim post (with moodboard!) [here](https://candybarrnerd.tumblr.com/post/190178234895/within-these-walls-by-icarusinflight-fandom-harry).


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